


A Witcher's Curse

by aravenwood



Series: Whumptober 2020 [26]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Beating, Blood and Injury, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Racism, Torture, Whipping, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood
Summary: Somehow, even shackled and beaten, Geralt still manages to be the most intimidating figure in the room.Geralt is tortured by men who despise witchers and Jaskier can do nothing but watch.Written for the Whumptober 2020 prompt "whipped".
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947343
Comments: 4
Kudos: 107
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	A Witcher's Curse

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So, we've come to the end of this year's Whumptober and it only felt right that I finish the month off with the fandom I planned most of my fics for and slightly neglected - The Witcher!
> 
> I am a massive Jaskier whumper, as you might be able to tell if you've read any of my other fics, but I could not get rid of the image of Geralt shackled to the ceiling looking stubborn but exhausted (it's a nice image, I wish I could draw it). And honestly, I really enjoyed whumping him. I was extremely mean to him, soooorry Geralt!
> 
> I want to thank everyone who has left kudos and comments on my fics throughout the month, it has been so amazing to see people enjoying all of the whump! It has made all of the hard work worth it!
> 
> TW for graphic descriptions of torture.
> 
> Thank you for reading and please enjoy!

Somehow, even shackled and beaten, Geralt still manages to be the most intimidating figure in the room. 

It’s an achievement, Jaskier thinks, and on any other occasion he’d be praising Geralt for it - it takes some serious muscle mass to look more frightening in restraints than the men armed with swords and whips and large strips of wood. And the men seem to agree because they’re keeping their distance, only one of them stepping forwards at a time to have their fun torturing a real life witcher.

They have Geralt shackled to the ceiling, his wrists pulled so far above his head that he’s balanced on the tips of his toes. He’s shirtless, exposing a myriad of scars both new and old across his chest and back - some of them are so large and thick that Jaskier wonders how he can even move without intense pain. And then he remembers - this is Geralt, he could be in pain all the time and wouldn’t let anyone know. 

The thought brings an uncomfortable twisting sensation to Jaskier’s already clenched gut.

Along with the old scars, there’s new wounds now too. Deep horizontal slashes across his ribs from the edge of a sword being dragged slowly along his skin. A long cut running from his left temple to his jaw, smearing his face with blood. Livid bruising around his neck from a belt, an attempted strangulation which left him half-conscious and barely breathing. Thick welts on his chest from lashes with the same belt. Much of his torso is barely visible beneath the blood dripping from his wounds.

But so far, they’ve left his back untouched. The leader of the men, a man who would be the giant of the room if not for Geralt’s presence, has warned each of the men who stepped forwards to take their turn that the back was off limits, that only he would mar it with wounds. He’s been patient thus far, watching and whooping after every blow and calling for Geralt to cry, to scream, to let out more than a slight grunt - so far, only one man has achieved anything close to a whimper after pouring some kind of alcohol over the wounds on his chest - but it’s clear he’s getting antsy.

He’s the one Jaskier is most afraid of. The one who has been keeping close and forcing Jaskier’s head up when he tries to look away from Geralt’s torture. Suspended in his own set of shackles and with a dirty cloth forced between his teeth, he’s helpless to do anything but watch.

“My turn, I think,” the man calls after someone almost breaks their hand punching Geralt in the face. He smirks as the other man shakes his fist and prods at his knuckles. “Before we take ourselves out,” he adds with a pointed stare.

He steps up to Geralt’s bloody form with a long, thin whip held loosely in one hand. Unlike every other man who’s taken their turn, he doesn’t flinch under Geralt’s cold stare. “You deserve this,” he spits. “You’re a monster, an abomination and you deserve every ounce of pain you have experienced and every ounce you will experience before I snap your neck where you stand.” 

Geralt just stares, one eyebrow raised. He says nothing, and Jaskier didn’t know him so well then he’d believe his companion to be entirely unaffected by the cruel words. But his jaw tightens ever so slightly and there’s an almost imperceptible flash of pain across his expression. He’s heard these words before and yet they hurt every time.

The man lets out a quiet growl of frustration. “By the time I am through with you, you will beg for me to kill you. But I won’t - I’ll kill the bard first.”

Finally that gets a reaction. Geralt jerks his head up and bares his teeth like a wild animal, fighting against his shackles with renewed vigor. His eyes are huge and dangerous, filled with more rage than Jaskier has ever seen in them. “I will tear your head from your shoulders and I will feed you to my horse,” Geralt spits, his voice hoarse but powerful. He ignores the blood which trickles down his arms as the skin on his wrists tears beneath the sharp edges of the shackles, ignores the other men raising their weapons defensively, ready to beat him down should he escape. He ignores everything but the man right in front of him, so close and yet so far.

But the man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t panic at the writhing witcher clawing at the air to reach him. He just looks over his shoulder, locks eyes with Jaskier and smirks.

He misses the ring on the ceiling attached to Geralt’s shackles shifting under the violent struggles.

Jaskier doesn’t. He bites back a smirk. Finally, some sign that they can get out of this with their necks still intact.

His excitement fades as the man circles around so he’s behind Geralt and swings the whip for the first time.

Geralt’s body shudders with the force of the blow as it lands between his shoulder blades. With a man almost the same size as him, the blow is much more powerful than any of the others have been and Jaskier can see Geralt clench his jaw to hold back a cry. 

The whip comes down again, this time on the small of his back. He jerks and his back arches instinctively in an attempt to get away from the pain. But it does nothing, and the lashes keep coming. Ten, twenty, thirty…all Jaskier can do is count and watch as Geralt slowly but surely slumps in his restraints. He’s trembling and Jaskier is too, and even if Geralt isn’t crying Jaskier is doing it enough for the both of them.

He can’t take his eyes off Geralt’s face, the way his jaw tightens and tightens until Jaskier imagines his teeth creaking as they’re crushed together. There’s a fine sheen of sweat covering Geralt’s exposed skin, beads leaving thin tracks through the layer of blood which covers him. But he’s holding it together, he’s stoic and strong and that’s somehow a comfort to Jaskier because he knows that as long as Geralt can hold it together, everything will be fine-.

Geralt cries out as a particularly powerful blow lands on the solid bone at the top of his spine.

Jaskier slumps in his chains. No. 

After the first cry is unleashed, it’s as if Geralt can no longer hold the rest back. With every new blow comes another shout, each more pained than the last. His eyes are squeezed shut and he’s full blown shuddering from each fresh wave of agony. Jaskier has no idea what his back looks like but with forty-six-forty-seven-forty-eight lashes from a mountain of a man, he can only imagine the state it must be in.

When the count in Jaskier’s head hits fifty, the blows stop. Geralt lets out a long, shuddering breath and lets his weight hang on his wrists. He’s gasping for air with each breath and he looks more vulnerable than Jaskier has ever seen him.

He looks broken.

The man with the whip backs up and tosses the weapon to the ground. He smirks as he takes in Geralt’s form and it only grows bigger as he turns and finds Jaskier sobbing. He closes the distance between himself and the bard and cups Jaskier’s chin, forcing his gaze upwards. He waits until Jaskier’s eyes are locked with his before he calls over his shoulder, “ok boys. Who’s next?”

Jaskier screams through the gag. No, no more. Geralt can’t take much more, he’s going to die from the pain and the blood loss and these men are going to keep hurting him until his final breath. He can’t let that happen. “Please, you can hit me instead. Give him a break, please he needs a break or you’re going to kill him,” he splutters through the gag, but his cries go unheard as the man pats him on the cheek and gestures for a man clutching a thin piece of leather between his hands to step forwards.

All of a sudden there’s a yell, pained and powerful and carnal, and the ring which attaches Geralt’s shackles to the ceiling suddenly gives way. And then, Geralt is free.

He’s wild and merciless as he takes out each of the men, who are all so shocked and stunned that they barely put up a fight. He steals a sword and swings it through the air, taking out five, ten, fifteen men with no remorse. The man in charge picks up a sword of his own from a dead man and raises it, but there’s barely time for him to even swing it before Geralt is burying his own sword in the man’s gut. 

The man collapses with a wet gurgle and blood dribbles from the corner of his mouth. His death is slower than the others but not slow enough, not nearly slow enough after what he’s put Geralt through. He deserves to suffer for it.

It’s only when the final man is dead that Geralt finally falters. To most people it would barely be noticeable but to Jaskier it’s downright terrifying. He moans through his gag to get Geralt’s attention and flinches at the cold look he receives. The glare softens quickly as Geralt remembers where he is and that Jaskier isn’t a threat, but Jaskier still feels slightly tight-chested as the larger man pulls the gag from his mouth and unlocks the shackles with a key he’s pulled from one of the bodies. 

As he turns away to unlock his own, Jaskier gets his first look at Geralt’s back and he’s almost sick at the sight. Thin welts criss-cross across every inch of his back, some deeper than others but all of them oozing blood. It’s no wonder that Geralt is walking slowly and stiffly, his legs shaking a little as he holds himself up.

“Geralt,” Jaskier calls to the witcher. “Are you…are you alright?” He knows the answer, both the one that Geralt will give and the truth.

“I’m fine.”

A lie.

“Geralt…”

“I said I’m fine!” Geralt snaps, and Jaskier forces himself not to flinch back. But the fear must show in his expression because Geralt lets out a soft sigh and bows his head. “I’ll be fine, Jaskier. There’s potions in Roach’s saddlebags to help with the healing. Are you ok?”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shoot up. “Am I ok? I’m just dandy, only I just had to watch my best friend in the entire Continent being tortured and beaten over and over again and I couldn’t make a single fucking sound, I’m absolutely fine!” he blurts out, his eyes stinging with fresh tears. He hates the way his voice cracks and wobbles all over the place when Geralt is holding it mostly together, but he figures that he’s entitled to be a little bit emotional after everything.

He jumps when a hand squeezes his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” Geralt says softly.

“Wait what? Why the fuck are you sorry?” Jaskier asks with wildly waving hands.

“They wanted me, not you. They took you to control me…and because they know we’re…travelling companions.”

Friends, Jaskier corrects in his mind. “And that’s your fault why? Geralt, what just happened isn’t your fault. It’s theirs for being fucking psychopathic racists with a penchant for blood and suffering. You did nothing to deserve that.” He pauses. “You know that, don’t you? That you didn’t deserve that.”

Geralt sighs. “Jaskier-.”

“Because you didn’t, I don’t give a fuck what that bastard said or what your incredibly low self-esteem said but you-.”

“I know.”

Jaskier stops mid-rant. “Wait you do? Well…good then. Great. Because you didn’t and I’m glad we agree. Now, shall we…leave? Because you, my friend, are in one hell of a state and we really need to do something about that,” he says, his voice softer now that he knows Geralt’s self-esteem isn’t completely in tatters.

Geralt leaves ahead of him, limping and wobbling on unsteady legs. But his jaw is clenched determinedly and even as he stumbles, even as he staggers and weaves along the path, he keeps moving. 

Normally Jaskier would be complaining about the man’s stubbornness, but it doesn’t feel right to do it now. Not when it’s Geralt’s stubbornness and pigheadeness which saved them.

Right now, he’s just proud of his best friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
